A Good Time
by Rick Peterson
Summary: Following the events in "Strange Behavior", Bruce Wayne attempts to relax in his own unique fashion.


A Good Time 

This story is a sequel to "Strange Behavior", my resolution of the Bruce Wayne: Fugitive story line.  Consequently, no DC Comic after Batman #600, Birds of Prey #40, Green Arrow #13 or the first half of Robin #100 is considered in continuity for this story.  You might want to read "Strange Behavior" first, but all you really need to know is that Dinah Lance (Black Canary) casually reveals she has guessed Bruce Wayne is the Batman.  This story is not in continuity with any other of my stories; in particular it is in no way connected with "Sunday Dinner at Wayne Manor".

All characters are copyright DC Comics.  No money is being made on this story and no infringement on their copyright is intended.

I'm in disguise and on a mission.  Not an unusual occurrence, although the mission is a particularly sensitive one and liable to blow up in my face if I'm not careful.  Still, nothing I can't handle, I tell myself.  I covertly scan the restaurant as the maitre d' leads me to the table.

There are only nine tables in the restaurant, and the maitre d' is leading me to the sole empty one.  I'm glad I made a reservation.  They'll have to expand if they don't want to lose their clientele.  The restaurant caters to the upper end of the white-collar workforce from the business district.  People like the middle manager in the front left hand table or the executive assistant reading a textbook – looks like she is working on her MBA – at the table next to him or the two currency traders at the back.  The sort who aren't interested in fancy decor or romantic lighting but are willing to pay good prices for good food as long as they don't have to wait for it.

The high-powered lawyer and his coed girlfriend, on the other hand, are here for the same reason I am.  The restaurant does not attract the highest levels of Gotham society, the sort of people who would know me or him or, more importantly from his point of view, his wife.  There is another advantage, from my point of view.  The people who come here keep to themselves; they are not interested in the other customers.  The executive assistant looks up briefly as I pass.  Her otherwise pretty face is pinched with chronic unhappiness and she gives me a quick look that I recognize: why can't I find me a man like that?  No one else notices me.  Except, that is, for the man at the front right corner table.

He has short dark hair, a blade-like nose and a weak chin.  He is dressed up, although the suit has seen better days, so he is probably waiting for his girlfriend or boyfriend to arrive.  Given his intent appraisal, either I've been made or it is definitely a boyfriend.  I look him over carefully from the corner of my eye while I'm seated.  The suit is several years out of date and a trifle worn, but clean and perfectly pressed.  Even Alfred would approve of those creases.  He didn't work eight hours in those clothes so either he went home to change – there would be time if he lives down town – or he doesn't work normal hours.

The restaurant is not something he could normally afford.  A man that fastidious about his clothes would not wear a worn or out of date suit if he could afford better.  Most likely he is trying to impress someone, but there are less innocent possibilities as well.  'Paparazzi' pops into my mind, but he was here before I arrived so he isn't following me and the restaurant is not the sort to attract someone worth the pararazzi's attention.

He glances at the doorway and then pulls back the sleeve of his coat to look at his watch.  I get a glimpse of his left hand in the process.  No wedding ring.  That makes the date scenario more plausible, which is good.  I don't want trouble tonight.  After all the furor over Vesper's murder, being recognized as Bruce Wayne definitely qualifies as trouble.

After the police received Strange's taped confession, corroborated by Barbara's testimony, the District Attorney fell all over himself in his haste to drop the charges against me.  I was free to 'return' from Santa Prisca, which meant I had to secretly fly there so I could publicly fly back.  The man who was impersonating me in Santa Prisca had to be secretly smuggled out, after first being convinced never to tell anyone that he HAD been impersonating me.

No, not threats.  Threats would make him wonder why it was so important.  Instead I explained how his payment was tied to his silence.  If he never told anyone, he would receive a steady income for the rest of his life.  Just enough to make it worth his while, but not so much as to raise his suspicions.  I hinted at accusations of blackmail if the truth did come out.  The stream of money would make the accusation particularly convincing.  Meanwhile dropping hints of half a dozen plausible non-Batman-related reasons for wanting everything kept secret.  That was the easy part.

The hard part began as soon as I stepped off the plane. The press and the paparazzi went crazy over the whole thing, but I'm used to dealing with them.  What was surprisingly difficult was having to personally accept the apologies of everyone from the Mayor on down.  They made a big production of it, whisking me down to City Hall as soon as I got off the plane.  The Mayor had gathered together everyone involved with the case.  He forgot the coroner who did Vesper's autopsy, but everyone else was crammed into his office.

I thought of telling them all to get stuffed.  All I really wanted to do was go home and forget about the whole mess.  But I knew that if I didn't let them have their circus, they would think I meant to sue and then they would think up even more annoying ways to placate me.  So I pasted a big smile on my face and got on with it.  One by one, the mayor led them up to me, so they could shake my hand and tell me how sorry they were that they had screwed up.  Everybody carefully avoided the subject of lawsuits.  I had to be photographed shaking the hand of each and every one of them.  To prove that I accepted their apologies, I suppose.

Shaking hands with the Mayor and the District Attorney was no big deal.  They are just hack politicians; Bruce Wayne does this sort of thing all the time.  Besides enjoying their embarrassment, my only feeling was the usual irritation at seeing that jerk in Marion Grange's place.  Commissioner Akins was harder.  He was honestly sorry and he had done his best, but all I could think of was that Jim Gordon wouldn't have made such a mess of things.  Jim may or may not have believed in my innocence, I don't know, but he would damn well have seen to it that all possibilities were investigated.

Turns out, once the police started looking, that Vesper and Strange had a history.  They met in New York after she left Gotham, just prior to No Man's Land.  He was using the name Wayne Thompson.  Thomas Wayne's son.  I was surprised how much I resented that.  Turns out Vesper's mother, brother and two close friends had all worried that Strange had an unhealthy influence over her.  At least, that's what they say now.  One of the friends may be grandstanding for the press, but the others seem genuine.  They had been happy when she moved back to Gotham, thinking she was leaving Strange behind.

Turns out, he was seen entering or leaving her apartment in Gotham several times.  On at least one occasion, Vesper wasn't there.  That was probably when he altered her journal entries.  Turns out, when they bothered to check her medicine cabinet, they found a whole range of mood altering drugs, all prescribed by Dr. Wayne Thompson.  If she were following the prescribed dosages, she would have been pretty thoroughly doped up and suggestible most of the time.

If they had bothered to check this out... but why should they?  They had their man, caught dead to rights.  Even if they had discovered all this, it would have meant nothing without the knowledge that Wayne Thompson was actually Hugo Strange.  The rational side of me understands this.  The Batman has no trouble working with Akins or Sawyer or Montoya.  The not so rational side of me... feels betrayed.

Maggie Sawyer was surprisingly difficult.  The new head of the Major Crimes Unit was obviously troubled that they had gotten the wrong man.  She made a little joke about learning the hard way how different Gotham was from Metropolis.  I thought of several cutting responses, starting with how our crooks don't get elected president and descending from there all the way to her personal life.  In the end, I just smiled and nodded.

Detective Crispus Allen was easier.  Although he apologized sincerely enough, his eyes told a different story.  He suspects something. Whether he thinks I really did kill Vesper or suspects me of something else, I don't know.  I shook his hand and pretended to accept his apology.  He wasn't fooled.  I'll have to be careful with him.

Renee Montoya was the hardest.  She looked miserable and that was like blood in the water.  I wanted to tear her to shreds, verbally since I couldn't do it physically.  But I swallowed it down and shook her hand.  When she apologized, I said, "Not your fault, Renee."  She turned white.  I don't know why.  I hit bone without trying and a part of me was glad.  I could have killed Strange in that moment, for forcing me to see the bitterness in my soul.

That was when I knew that Alfred and Barbara were right.  They have both been telling me I should take some time off.  No doubt Dick would say the same thing, except things are keeping him busy in Bludhaven.  He has spent too much time in Gotham lately and now it's time to pay the piper.  It doesn't help that he is still upset with Barbara for ever thinking I might have killed Vesper.

The problem was what to do with myself.  I have no hobbies and I knew I couldn't just do nothing.  I would spend the time brooding instead of relaxing, which would be worse than useless.  I needed a friend, and I don't have one.  Alfred is like a father to me; Dick is my son; Cassandra and Stephanie – and Tim, if he ever speaks to me again – are my pupils.  They are all family, but that's not what I needed.  The closest is Barbara, both in age and the fact that neither of us looks up to the other, but she is as much of a workaholic as I am.  Even if I could drag her away from her computers, and not feel guilty about taking up free time she would normally spend with Dick – if they weren't feuding over me – what would we do?  The only thing I can think of is talk about family and that's not a good idea right now.

Jim is still in Europe.  There is Clark but again, even if we got past the awkwardness, what would we do?  Outside of work, we don't really have much in common.  More, perhaps, than I am willing to admit out loud but still....  No, it wouldn't work.  The only other person in the JLA I consider a friend is J'onn and I know he isn't really comfortable around me.  One of the drawbacks of being a telepath.  I am used to their screams in my head; I am not going to inflict them on him unnecessarily.  So there really wasn't much choice.

The man at the corner table glances over at me and then looks away.  The probability of trouble shoots up.  My disguise is sketchy at best.  She agreed to have dinner with Bruce Wayne, after all, not Matches Malone.  The disguise consists mainly of attitude, but it is amazing how effective that can be.  Act like a different person and most people will take you for a different person.  Most people.  Some people, however, pay attention to detail and, given how carefully he dresses, it seems safe to assume this guy is a detail man.  Unfortunately for me.

Fortunately, his brief tentative glances suggest he is uncertain of himself.  Given the hesitant way he tried to catch the waiter's eye to get more water, I guess that the uncertainty comes from a lack of self-confidence, which means I can exploit it.  I wait, munching on a bread stick and watching out of the corner of my eye, until he looks my way again.

I look up and catch his eye, apparently by chance.  I smile and nod at him and he looks quickly away.  That should do it.  I'll keep an eye on him, but I doubt he will be a problem now.  To clinch the matter, his date finally appears.  That should take his attention off of me.

It's getting late, so I signal the waiter and order.  She will either show up soon or call and say she can't make it.  Either way, I might as well get the ball rolling.  I munch on another bread stick and realize how disappointed I will be if she cancels.

She walks in and every conversation stops as all the males in the restaurant, and most of the females, turn to look at her.  The usual lack of interest in other customers evidently does not extend to drop-dead blondes dressed to kill.  She is wearing a strapless black dress – neither particularly short nor low-cut, instead it subtly emphasizes her curves – and high heels.  Her hair is slightly disheveled, which gives her a sultry look.  She stops and scans the room.  Her gaze passes right over me and then comes back.  She smiles and walks over, the maitre d' trailing in her wake.  I'm the envy of every man in the room.  Almost every man.  The man at the front corner table, after a brief glance, returns his attention to the young woman across from him.  Good for him.

"Sorry I'm late."  She graciously allows the maitre d' to seat her.

"Not at all, Dinah."  You have to expect that sort of thing in our business.  "I've been eating breadsticks and watching the people."  Which is true enough and better than saying I was brooding over the possibility she wouldn't show.  I surreptitiously double-check that the breadbasket is turned so the breadsticks with garlic butter on them are closest to her and say, "Have one."

"Hey, these are good!"  I smile.  I researched her food preferences carefully before choosing the restaurant.

"So, spot anyone famous?"

"Very funny.  Someone spotted ME, but I convinced him he was wrong."

"Only one?  That mustache wouldn't fool anyone."

I refrain from pointing out that it fooled her for a moment and she had been expecting to see me.  "That isn't my disguise," I tell her.  "My disguise is that I parted my hair on the other side."

She sputters.

"It's true.  It makes my hair fall differently.  I stand (and sit) straighter and move more quickly and decisively.  I meet people's gaze directly rather than gazing abstractedly in their general direction and I give them an 'I'm an alpha male and I expect to get my way but I try to be polite about it' smile instead of an 'I don't really know why I'm here or who you are but I'm too well mannered to say so' smile.  The suit is Brooks Brothers, not Armani; the fit is only decent and it looks like I've spent a long, hard day in it.  The mustache is just to break up the appearance of my face, to prevent instant recognition and force people to take in the whole gestalt.  Most people don't really SEE.  Instead, they look for familiar patterns and mine screams 'upwardly mobile middle manager on the make', not 'rich, good natured playboy who's not all there'.  THAT's the real disguise."

Dinah finds these obvious truths hilarious.  After she regains her breath, she smiles.  "I didn't realize there were so many different types of smiles."

"Yes, you did.  You just weren't aware that you knew.  Think about all the different sorts of smiles you have seen and how much information they contain.  People can share a joke or a memory or a tender moment with a smile.  A smile can be a come-on, a 'go away', a put down, a 'way to go'.  It can say, 'I'm happy', 'I'm bored', 'I'm mad but too polite to say it', 'I want to skin you alive and roast you over a slow fire'.  The same is true of posture, hand gestures, any sort of body language.  It's all the more powerful because we don't usually think of it.  Nobody is going to say, 'Oh that's not Bruce Wayne because the hair or the smile is wrong'.  But their subconscious will register it and so it will never occur to them that I might be Bruce Wayne."

"Well, then," her smile grows interested, "how did even one person spot you?"

"Some people DO see.  The guy's an artist, trained to see the details as well as the big picture."  He had pulled out a drawing pencil, the same kind Kyle uses, three separate times to sketch me; each time realizing that the restaurant had real place mats and cloth napkins, so there was nothing to draw on. 

"Where is he sitting?"

 "Front corner table to my right."  She's not going to turn and look, is she?

Dinah doesn't turn.  "The punctilious little man sitting with the short, intense brunette who looks like she could eat him alive?"

"That's the one."

"How do you know he's an artist?"  Her tone of voice and body posture say she wants to catch the Batman out in an error in one of his famous deductions.

"Please don't go interrogate him about my conclusions," I ask, rather piteously.  Her reaction tells me I guessed right.  "I don't want to rouse his suspicions again."

"What does it matter?  There's no crime in our having dinner together."

"No, if it were a crime that would mean the police, and they have to follow due process.  The press has no such restrictions.  Since we are both public figures, even the libel laws don't provide much protection.  After your part in bringing Strange to justice, the tabloids would have a field day over our being seen together.  They would make it into a torrid secret affair.  There would be stories of how you framed Strange to free your secret lover, how you are having my love child and worse.  The paparazzi would be camping outside your door and following you everywhere."

She isn't convinced.  "I've dealt with the press ever since I first joined the JLA.  How much worse can it get?"

"Believe me, you don't want to find out."

She still isn't convinced, but drops the matter.  "How did you convince him you're not Bruce Wayne?"

"That was easy.  He kept glancing this way, trying to make sure I AM Bruce Wayne.  Obviously not sure of himself.  So I 'accidentally' caught his eye the next time he looked my way and gave him an 'I don't recognize you but you're looking at me so, to be safe, I'll act like I do' smile with a small nod of the head."

Dinah laughs once more.  It's not a particularly musical laugh, but it is full of genuine enjoyment.  A friendly sort of laugh.  Comfortable.

"And I mixed in a rueful 'two guys both waiting for their tardy dates to show up' sort of smile."  That sets her off again.  Good.

"That really confused him.  If I was Bruce Wayne in disguise, I ought to be avoiding eye contact and trying not to draw attention to myself.  Right about then, his date arrived.  That clinched the deal.  She is not the sort of woman any man wants to make a fool of himself in front of, let alone someone who is insecure to start with.  And NOT telling her just adds to his doubts and uncertainty.  By the time he gets home, he'll be telling himself it couldn't have been Bruce Wayne.  By tomorrow, he will have forgotten about it entirely."

"I don't think you could fool the woman so easily."

"I know I couldn't.  Fortunately, she has 'tunnel vision' and didn't even notice me. She was too focused on being mad at her boss for keeping her late. Now she's focused on her date.  She'll never even realize there is anyone sitting at this table, UNLESS you draw their attention to us."

"Okay, okay, I get the picture.  The couple at the front table is off limits.  Tell me about the other patrons, instead."

I don't like where I see this going, so I try to distract her.  "How's Oliver?"  I'm curious how she will answer.  There's a story making the rounds that he asked her out on a date.  Given their past -- rather tempestuous -- relationship, that's not surprising.  However, I've heard six different endings to the story, each more outrageous than the last.  The curious thing is that the most outrageous comes from the most reliable source.

She screws up her face.  "Ollie is... Ollie.  He'll never change."

Anything I say is likely to be the wrong thing, so I say nothing.  She sighs, then cranes her head around.

"The waiter is taking his time."

"Oh, I already ordered for both of us."  The moment the words are out of my mouth, I realize what a bad idea it was.  Fortunately, I am able to swallow my explanation about it being more efficient that way.  A date is not about efficiency; it is about spending time together, and not pissing the other person off.  I know I haven't done too well at the latter even before she turns back and spears me with a cold stare.

"If you don't like what I ordered for you, you can have mine.  If you don't like that either, you can order something else," I tell her meekly.  Her look tells me that if we reach that point, I will be eating alone.

Fortunately, the waiter shows up with our dinner.  This forces a temporary truce as he lays out the dishes and Dinah carefully tastes hers.  The silence grows less menacing as the storm clouds are replaced by delighted surprise.  She takes a second larger bite, chewing slowly and savoring it.  Finally she looks up and a grin grows on her face.

"OK, buster, I guess you're off the hook.  This is really good."

I smile.  She frowns.  I brace myself for trouble.

"If mine is this good, I want to try yours."  Her tone conveys her suspicion I saved the best for myself.  I pass her my plate.  She takes a bite and wrinkles up her nose.

"Why would you eat that when you could be eating this?"  She indicates her own dish with her fork.

"Not everyone likes garlic," I tell her.

"But it's PLAIN."

"I like plain."

"You ARE strange."

"Alfred would agree with you," I reply morosely.  "He keeps making me gourmet meals and then sulking because I don't eat them.  You'd think an Englishman would understand a preference for plain food."

"Alfred is your chef?" she hazards.

"Chef, butler, valet and chauffeur all rolled into one.  I couldn't manage without him."

"Does he Know?"

"Oh, yes.  Nothing happens at the manor that he doesn't know about," I grimace, "and, usually, disapproves of."

We eat in silence for a while.  Then she puts down her fork.

"You're not completely off the hook, however.  Tell me about the other patrons." 

I have no desire to antagonize her again, so I do as she asks.

"Who do you want to hear about?  The currency traders behind me who are trading war stories until the Japanese exchanges open?  They both think they're hotshots.  The older man is right; the younger man is doing cocaine and will crash and burn within a year.  Then there's the overworked and under-appreciated executive assistant to my left who's wondering why she can't hold onto a boyfriend.  The reason is that she has brains and drive, which scares off many men, and is too smart to put up with a loser for very long.  The men at work who should be interested in her are taking their cue from her idiot boss who doesn't realize she is responsible for his success."  I consider and reluctantly discard the idea of trying to headhunt her for Wayne Enterprises.  I don't want to break character.

"Or there is the high-powered lawyer and his law student girlfriend to my right.  He told her he's single or, more likely, that they are separated and getting a divorce.  She should know better.  He's a 'rain maker' for, probably a medium-sized investment banking firm, although it could be a law firm specializing in business law."

"Rain maker?"

"Someone who specializes in drumming up business for the firm, rather than actually doing the work."

"Like Richard Fish."

"Exactly.  Except he occasionally handled a case.  I doubt this guy ever actually does any real work."

"YOU watched Allie McBeal?"

I look at her guilelessly.  "Didn't everyone?"

She looks skeptical, but decides to let it pass.  "How do you know that he's a 'rain maker'?"

"I've had so many proposition me," she chokes on the choice of words, "that I've gotten good at spotting and avoiding them."

She glares at me, then says, "Be more specific."

"Well, look at him.  He's a 'hail fellow, well met' type.  Notice the expansive gestures?  The false bonhomie?  The cold, calculating eyes?  The $3,000 suit?  Oh yes, he's a rain maker, all right."

"Okay," she concedes, "what else?"

"He's a social climber.  His accent is local, upper class 'old money' with just enough of a middle class undertone to tell where he started.  He probably married up for the connections, although maybe for money as well.  The girlfriend is obviously a coed."  Dinah nodded; her dress, manner and book bag screamed this out.  "Her age says she's a grad student.  Her accent says upper middle class Californian, probably Gateway City, so it's unlikely they met socially.  They most likely met at one of her classes at Gotham University where he was a guest lecturer.  The dean of the law school is very good at roping the graduates – at least the successful ones – into such services.  It's part of the price of admission into one of the most influential old-boy networks in Gotham.

"See that ring?  Gotham University Law School ring.  If he were in criminal or civil law, he probably wouldn't wear it.  The GU law school isn't particularly good in those fields.  To be honest, they aren't any great shakes at business law either, but the connections you make there are worth every penny of the tuition and more.  It's particularly valuable in the investment banking field."

"Why a medium-sized firm?"

"If he were with a major firm, I would know him and he's not hungry enough for a small firm."

She nods.  "Well, let's see how well you did," she says as she signals for the waiter.  He appears at her shoulder within seconds, blocking any attempt on my part to derail her next move.  Not that I think I could.

She turns her best smile on the waiter, who promptly melts.

"I know that man over there," she admits sheepishly, "but I can't remember his name."

"Oh, you mean Mr. Hadley?"

"Yes, that's his name!  Thank you.  Now I can say hello without embarrassing myself."  They smile conspiratorially at each other and then the waiter takes himself off. Dinah stands.

"Dinah," I say beseechingly.  She gives me a mischievous smile and walks over to Mr. Hadley's table.  Mr. Hadley is beefy with a florid complexion and wavy prematurely white hair.  The suit and vest are a conservative dark gray.  The tie is more flamboyant: lime green sailboats on a wine-colored sea.  The gold tie tack is a compass star with a big diamond in the center.  A gold watch chain extends to a vest pocket.   The coed has long black hair and a slight olive cast to her complexion, which suggests some Mediterranean ancestry.  She is a little plump but has plenty of curves.  I can't get a good look at her face from this angle.

"Mr. Hadley, my name is Dinah Laurel." Good technique.  She avoids the risk of his recognizing her name by dropping her last name.  And it isn't, quite, a lie so she has a better chance of recovery if he recognizes her face.

"We met at a party some time back."  Not so good.  A man would have to be dead not to remember meeting her.  "Your wife introduced us."  Ah, that will distract him from the previous lie.  Her delivery is relaxed and natural.  Perfect.

But this guy is not about to panic.  "You must have me confused with someone else."

Dinah looks adorably confused.  "I'm sorry; I thought you were Mr. Hadley."

"That is my name but I think I would remember if we had met."

"You're not a lawyer, specializing in Business Law, teach occasionally at Gotham University Law School?"

The coed, who had been looking impatient, gasps.  The man's eyes flits towards her, then back to Dinah.  There is a sudden tension in his voice as he repeats, "You must have me confused with someone else."  It sounds a lot less convincing this time.

"But I had lunch with your wife just last week.  She spent most of the time talking about how happy you two are together."

The coed jumps to her feet, her chair falling over backwards, barely missing one of the commodity traders.

"You bastard," she hisses.  "You told me you were getting a divorce!" 

"Annie, wait...."  But Annie doesn't wait.  Dinah jumps back to avoid collateral damage, but it's unnecessary.  Annie's aim is good; her wine catches him full in the face.  Dinah gives him an apologetic glance as Annie grabs her book bag and storms out of the restaurant.  Dinah heads back towards our table.  The waiter glares reproachfully at her; she spreads her hands and shrugs a 'how was I to know?' shrug while looking abashed.  The waiter hurries over to Mr. Hadley, who slaps his hand away, drops some money on the table and storms out in his turn.  Dinah's body language proclaims her contrition.  Only I can see the laughter in her eyes: she's enjoying this.  As soon as he has mopped up the wine, I beckon the waiter over.

"I am SO sorry," Dinah apologizes.  "I didn't realize...."

"Maybe this will be a lesson to you," I tell her sternly.  "I wouldn't blame this man if he threw us out and told us never to return."  Dinah hangs her head and only I can see how she is fighting not to laugh.  I surreptitiously pass the waiter a fifty.

"I am sure the lady did not intend to cause trouble," he proclaims, "but perhaps it would be better if she did not bother any of the other customers."

"Oh, no!" Dinah exclaims.  She looks up, her countenance fully under control once more.  "I've learned my lesson."

The waiter nods and leaves.  Dinah looks at me, her eyes full of mischief.  Before she can say anything, I hiss, "Company coming."

"Who?"

"Ms. 'Tunnel Vision'.  Your little acting job caught her attention."

"Oops," says Dinah, although she doesn't look sorry.

Then the young lady is here.  She is short, slender, flat-chested and not particularly pretty.  However, at this range, I see that she has beautiful brown eyes and a fierce intensity that is almost magnetic.  Ignoring me, she faces Dinah.

"Ms. Lance," she says, "you won't remember me, but you saved my life and my mother's some years ago. It was back when that Dinosaur creature threatened Gotham.  You pushed us out of the way of a falling building."

Dinah shoots me a triumphant look. 

"I was just a child," I suppress a snort of laughter at Dinah's expression, "but I will never forget that moment.  I just want to say: Thank you."

"You're welcome, Miss?"

"Oh, sorry, Ms. Lance.  Sorenson, Valerie Sorenson."

"Well, you're welcome Ms. Sorenson.  It's always great to be reminded of the good we've done over the years."

"The many years," I comment in an undertone.  Dinah shoots me a severe look.

Ms. Sorenson smiles.  Then she turns to me and speaks softly, so no one else can hear.

"Mr. Wayne, I have always been proud of being a Gothamite, until this past year. After all that you have done for this city, the way you have been treated is dreadful and I apologize for Gotham."

I hadn't expected this and I'm touched by her sincerity.

"It's not your fault, Ms. Sorenson.  As for Gotham, one of the things that I love about this town is that it constantly surprises you.  Sometimes the surprises are unpleasant ones but sometimes, as you have shown us, the surprises are good ones."

We all smile at each other and then, her mission completed, she turns and walks back to her date.  Dinah and I look at each other.

"Well...."

"That was certainly unexpected."

Yes."  All of a sudden, we start laughing.

"How did you know he was married?" Dinah asks curiously.

"He wasn't wearing a wedding ring..."

"Well, THAT'S a real clue."

"...but he kept glancing at the entrance, even though this restaurant is not the sort where he could expect to meet colleagues or clients.  Conclusion: he was afraid of being seen with her.  It couldn't be because she was a law student: the Law School winks at that sort of behavior.  Even if she was an intern at his firm, nobody really cares about that sort of thing.  As long as she doesn't make waves, the student is guaranteed a good recommendation.  If she does make waves, well, they ARE lawyers.  They know how to manipulate the system and the 'old-boy network' is still strong in Gotham.  She would lose, and the law students know it.  It's sexist but it's the way things are here.  So he's got to be married."

"Well, he's going to be the one who loses this time."

"When she cools down, she may decide to take her recommendation and chalk it up to experience."

Dinah made a face.

"I agree, but a lot of people aren't willing to buck the system, particularly in a place like Gotham."

"Hmpf!"

Time to change the subject.  "I have tickets for the Opera after dinner."

"Opera?"  Her voice told me I was losing ground again.

"You don't like Opera."  That possibility hadn't occurred to me.  "Maybe Ms. Sorenson and her companion would like to see 'Cats'."

" 'Cats'?  'Cats' isn't Opera, that's a musical."

I look at her in puzzlement.  "What do you think Opera is?"

"Opera is ... stuffy.  Buxom women belting out incomprehensible lyrics at the top of their lungs.  Like a foreign flick without subtitles and the sound turned up too high.  High brow stuff.  'Cats' ... 'Cats' is fun."

I laugh.  I can't help it.  I choke it off as quickly as I can.  My experience is that laughing at your date is a bad idea unless you WANT her drink in your face.  Dinah just looks as if she wants in on the joke.  Maybe I've been dating the wrong sort of woman.

"Do you know the definition of 'high brow' music?" I ask her, remembering something one of my professors once said.  He was talking about literature, but it works for music as well.

Dinah shakes her head, but looks interested.

"It's popular music whose authors are safely dead and buried."

Dinah chuckles at that and, encouraged, I press on.

"There is a difference between opera and musicals, but it is technical and only matters to nit-pickers.  Those 'high brow' operas are in German and Italian because they were written for audiences who spoke German and Italian.  Operas for English-speaking audiences are written in English.  Do you know Gilbert and Sullivan?"

She nods.  "But they're fluff."

"Most of Mozart's operas are 'fluff'.  The point is that people enjoyed them – and still do.  Some people think that being written in a foreign language actually helps: then the words don't get in the way of the music.  I think that's nonsense.  If you don't want words, listen to instrumental music."

"Well, I know Gilbert and Sullivan are considered 'fluff'.  I don't think Mozart is."

"He's been dead longer."  She laughs at this.  "The fact that most people don't understand German and Italian helps too.  Give Gilbert and Sullivan another hundred years and they will be as revered as Mozart.  Look at Shakespeare."

She looks at me strangely.  "You're comparing Gilbert and Sullivan to Shakespeare?"

"Why not?  They both wrote silly comedies with lots of clever wordplay.  Both had a wicked sense of humor.  Of course, Shakespeare wrote a lot of silly tragedies as well.  Gilbert understood his own limitations better."

"Shakespeare is supposed to be the greatest writer in English literature," Dinah says mildly, in the manner of someone putting out bait and waiting for a bite.  So I oblige her.

"Shakespeare is overrated.  He certainly wrote great comedies.  His tragedies are another matter.  Let me guess – you had to read Hamlet or one of the histories in English class and hated it."

"How did you know?"

"The way you pursed your mouth when you called him 'the greatest writer in English literature'.  If it had been one of his comedies or even 'MacBeth' or 'Othello', you would have reacted differently.  Which play was it?"

"Hamlet."

"And you thought the plot was ridiculous, Hamlet was an idiot and you couldn't understand half the speeches."

"I had to keep reading the footnotes to make sense of what they were saying.  Where's the fun in that?"

"That part is hardly Shakespeare's fault, but you get my point.  Of course, some of his other tragedies are more successful – I have no idea why English professors have latched onto 'Hamlet' as his greatest work – but even there his wordplay and comic bits are more important than his plots or characterization.  I would tell you to see one of his comedies, but the language has changed enough in the past four hundred years that you wouldn't get half the jokes.  As the Joker would say, a joke that has to be explained isn't funny."

I stop and frown at my mention of the Joker. Dinah doesn't seem bothered by it.

"How about Romeo and Juliet?  Are you going to tell me it isn't the greatest love story ever written?"  She smiles as she says this, obviously anticipating my response.

"It's not a love story at all, but it IS a tragedy.  Tell me, have you seen it performed?  Or the Zefferelli movie?"

"I saw the movie," she admits.

"Do you remember when Romeo first appears?  His friends are chafing him about...."

"Another girl!  Rosalyn or something?"  
  
"Rosaline, yes.  And perhaps you remember how old Romeo and Juliet are supposed to be?"

"Not exactly, but they were very young.  Just kids!"

"Exactly.  So a fourteen year old girl who has never been allowed to date meets an older boy who is pining for another girl and they immediately decide they're in love.  Sound like true love to you?"

"More like true lust!"

I smile.  "If they hadn't died, Romeo would have found someone new to be 'in love' with and Juliet would have ended up a shrew, like her mother, married to a philanderer."

"That's cold!"

"But accurate.  The tragedy is that the adults let things go so wrong."  I take a drink of water, then continue.  "The first half of the play is a comedy – the word play and the jokes, the disguises and people falling in love with the wrong person – it's just like one of his comedies.  Then Mercutio is stabbed and everything spins out of control.  But the silliness remains.  Did you ever hear of anything more ridiculous than Juliet's plan to get back together with Romeo?  It's as if Shakespeare started writing a comedy, then decided to recycle it into a tragedy.  Which is probably exactly what happened.  He was a hack, turning out plays as fast as he could.  Under the circumstances, it's remarkable that he wrote as well as he did.  But 'greatest writer in English literature'?  Please!"

Dinah smiles.  " Shakespeare, Gilbert and Sullivan, Ali McBeal – do you mean you actually have a life?"

"Well, Alfred used to perform Shakespeare and he loves Gilbert and Sullivan.  I guess more of it stuck than I realized.  Not that he would agree with my opinion of Shakespeare, of course."

She looked puzzled.  "Your butler, Alfred?"

"He's more than that.  He's family.  He raised me after...."  I look away, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

"I'd like to meet him."

I try to smile.  "I'll have to arrange it then.  Perhaps dinner at the Manor some time."

"I'd like that.  But I don't believe Alfred forced you to watch 'Ali McBeal'."

I just smile mysteriously.  I'm good at that.

"Tell me, has Carrie gotten back together with Mister Big?"

"Not yet, but there are rumors that she will in the new season."

She stares at me.  "You're scaring me."

I sigh.  "Okay.  The thing is, I use a lot of disguises.  To sustain a disguise, I need to know what that character would know.  Part of it is being familiar with 'popular culture'."

"You watched Ali McBeal to improve a disguise?" she asks incredulously.

"Keep your voice down!" I hiss.  "I have a computer program which summarizes what is popular for me, so I don't have to watch TV or movies.  Music is harder: you can't really summarize music.  So I listen to a lot of bad but popular music while I work out."

"So you didn't actually watch Ali McBeal," she says, accusingly.

"I never actually said I did," I remind her, "but, yes, I did watch it once.  It was such a big phenomenon a few years back and I couldn't make sense of it from the summaries, particularly the bathroom jokes."

"So, did watching it help?" she asks, curious.

"To a degree.  I still don't understand why anyone would find it funny, let alone think Callista Flockhart is attractive.  Unless you are into anorexic women, I suppose."

"Which I guess you're not.  I am definitely not anorexic."

I smile.  "No, just a lot more shapely than Flockhart."

She dimples.  "Why, thank you, Mr. Wayne."

And, of course, my cell phone picks that moment to start ringing.  The ring tells me it is Oracle.  I smile apologetically as I fish it from my pocket.

"Yes?"

"Sorry, boss, I know this is your night off, but you wanted me to call if any 'special' calls came in.  It's the Riddler.  He sent a message to the Commissioner, who'll be lighting up the Signal any minute now.  It's that Poe riddle again.  'Why is a Raven like a writing desk?'  What I want to know is, why does he keep using that same damn riddle over and over again?"

"It's famous for being a riddle without an answer.  Of course it fascinates him.  Okay, I'm on it."

"It's only the Riddler.  The police can handle this one."

"I said, I'm on it."

She sighs and hangs up.  I look over at Dinah.

"Riddler?" she asks.  I nod.  "I guess that means the date is over."  She sounds disappointed.

I smile.  "Only if you want it to be.  Otherwise we can move on to the action portion of the night's entertainment, courtesy of Edward Nigma."

She smiles blindingly at me.  "Why, Mr. Wayne, you sure know how to show a girl a good time."

Author's Note: The 'Dinosaur' incident occurred in JLA Incarnations #2.  Dinah's date with Oliver Queen occurs in Green Arrow #12-13.  The only occasion I know of where the Riddler uses Poe's famous riddle is in Batman & Robin Adventures #21 and so is definitely not in continuity.  But it seems to me that he WOULD be fascinated by a riddle without an answer.  Since I don't actually watch 'Sex and the City', the reference may now be out of date.  The rumor was in a June issue of TV Guide.  Bruce Wayne's opinions on opera & Shakespeare are his own and are not necessarily the views of the management.  Really.


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